That Which Holds the Image
by Operatic Pierrot
Summary: Petunia Dursley was horrified to discover that her infant nephew had become her infant niece, Albus Dumbledore was intrigued to learn that the Child-Who-Lived was a metamorphmagus, Horace Slughorn has a headache... and Tom Riddle is not ready for what awaits him. (heavily AU)
1. Chapter 1

A day and a half after the Dursleys had grudgingly accepted the child of Petunia Dursley's murdered sister into their home, Petunia found herself screaming.

Her sister's child, Harry Potter, appeared to have changed from a boy to a girl at some point after the last time she had changed the child's diaper.

Petunia didn't know how to deal with something like this, something so obviously _magical_. Would it happen again? Would other changes occur? How was she supposed to raise a child like this? How would she explain it to a school? She couldn't help but be relieved that Vernon was away at work — he would no doubt have reacted even more poorly to the situation than she was, and as much as she resented her sister she didn't truly want anything horrible happening to the child.

There was only one option available to her, and so she picked up the phone and mechanically dialed a number that had been listed in the letter her sister received so many years ago, a number she had never been able to forget.

"You've reached Hogwarts School for Gifted Children," the bored voice of a young woman greeted her. "This is Jane MacGregor. Are you a parent or relative of a current student, or are you looking to enroll someone?"

"I need to speak to Albus Dumbledore," Petunia said, barely able to keep her disgust out of her voice. "Tell him Petunia Dursley is calling. He knows who I am."

"…right," Jane drawled, voice doubtful. "Hang on." There was a moment of silence, and then, more respectfully, "Are you available for a house call? Professor Dumbledore would prefer to speak to you in person."

"That would probably be for the best," Petunia managed. She didn't want that freak anywhere near her home — anywhere near her precious Duddikins — but in this case she felt like she had no choice.

"He'll be with you in five minutes," Jane told her, then hung up the phone.

Petunia exhaled slowly as she placed the phone back on the receiver. With any luck, she would be able to convince Dumbledore to take the child somewhere else. She wasn't equipped to raise a magical child, not in knowledge or in temperament. Petunia knew herself, and she knew she was a bitter, jealous, spiteful person. Her grudge against Lily — and against magic — was no weaker now than it had been in years past, and she knew she would find herself taking it out on her sister's child. Harry had done nothing to deserve that.

A knock on the front door broke her out of her thoughts, and she hurried to answer it.

"Good afternoon, Petunia," Albus Dumbledore greeted genially. He was dressed in a sharp suit, and the only thing that marked him as anything but an ordinary old man was the length of his beard and hair. Petunia thanked the heavens that the man knew when to display tact.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Dumbledore," Petunia replied tersely. "Would you like to come inside and sit down?"

"Most gracious of you," Albus replied, eyes twinkling as he stepped into the house. "I must say, I was surprised to hear that you had called. Is everything well?"

"No, it's not," Petunia snapped, finally unable to hold back her frustration. "My sister's child has turned into a girl!"

"Truly?" Albus asked, blinking. "I hadn't thought… could you show me to little Harry?"

"In here," Petunia muttered, leading the old wizard to the kitchen. Harry was still lying on the table, bare from the waist down.

Albus let out a soft hum and drew his wand, ignoring Petunia's flinch at the action. He waved it over the baby a number of times, then let out a long sigh. "It appears that Harry is a metamorphmagus. They must have inherited it from their father's line — the Potters are distantly related to the Blacks, who are known to produce a metamorphmagus every now and then."

"And what in the world is a 'metamorphmagus?'" Petunia asked, spitting the word.

"A metamorphmagus is someone with the ability to transform their body at will," Albus replied, stroking his beard. "They're quite rare. I only know of four others born in Britain this century, all with connections to the Black family, and one of those is only a child herself." He sighed again. "I suppose Lily and James simply saw no need to inform me of young Harry's abilities, as I have no doubt they had already manifested. Metamorphmagi almost always perform their first transformation within a week of birth… Still, this complicates things, and throws into question quite a few things that I thought I knew." Strangely, Albus sounded hopeful rather than worried. "I'm afraid that this is unlikely to be a suitable environment for a metamorphmagus to grow up, Petunia. They rarely gain full control of their abilities until puberty, and even then they're prone to minor transformations based on their emotional state. If a young metamorphmagus were to attend a non-magical school…"

"It would break that secrecy law you lot love so much, I'd expect," Petunia sniffed.

"Indeed," Albus chuckled. "Quite seriously at that. It's fortunate that it's an ability that can only manifest once enough magic has built up in a bloodline." A flick of his wand had Harry cleaned and dressed in a new diaper. "I'm sorry, Petunia, but I'm going to need to take little Harry to be raised by someone else. If you would like, I can still arrange for you to visit."

"No, that's quite all right," Petunia replied, barely able to believe her luck. "I believe it would be for the best if we had as little contact as possible."

Albus hummed, peering at her sadly over his glasses. "Oh, Petunia… still holding on to a grudge from so long ago? I had thought…" he broke off, shaking his head. "Never mind. I wish you and your family all the best." He scooped little Harry up into his arms and headed for the door. Petunia followed to see him out.

After the door had been shut behind him — slammed, really — Albus looked down at the infant in his arms and smiled.

"You may not be the subject of the prophecy after all, little one," he whispered, tickling baby Harry's chin with one long finger. "Wouldn't that be wonderful? If the prophecy applies to another dark lord…" Albus strolled down the street to the secluded alley he had Apparated into, plans spinning in his mind.

If the prophecy didn't apply, there was no reason that Albus Dumbledore couldn't seek to end Voldemort himself, a thought that cheered the old man immensely.

If there was one thing that Albus Dumbledore hated, it was the idea of making children fight a war. If there was a chance that could be averted, he needed to investigate it immediately.

He had two stops to make: one at Hogwarts, to convince an old friend to raise a child, and one with an oracle in Greece.


	2. Chapter 2

Horace Slughorn was a mess, and he knew it.

For perhaps the first time in his life, he didn't care about that. What good were appearances at a time like this?

The old wizard hadn't bothered changing out of his pajamas after discovering the disappearance of his fish — an omen that he knew meant the death of his favorite student, Lily Evans… or Lily Potter, he supposed (Horace had never been very good at remembering the last name changes former students underwent after leaving his class). When Albus had confirmed his fears, he had sunk into a bottle, refusing to crawl out even for Monday's classes. Horace canceled them by sending a message with one of the House-Elves and continued to drink, his liver preserved only by the potions he took every couple of hours to keep himself awake.

A familiar knock rang out on the door to his chambers, and Horace sighed — Albus again, no doubt preparing once more to try to convince him to get up and finish out the term, though they both knew that Horace would be retiring come the winter holidays. Horace downed a potion to remove his drunken state — one always needed all of their wits about them when it came to dealing with Albus Dumbledore — and answered the door.

"I told you, Albus, I—" Horace cut himself off, gazing in surprise at the child in his old friend's arms and the Muggle suit that he was wearing. "What's going on, Albus?"

"May I come inside, Horace?" Albus asked, eyes twinkling.

"…yes, yes of course," Horace mumbled, shuffling backward and waving his wand to vanish the bottles burying the couch. He settled back into his armchair as Albus took a seat, gently stroking the baby's silky black hair.

"This is Harry Potter," Albus introduced.

"Lily's son?" Horace croaked, eyes fixed on the baby. "Didn't you say you'd placed him somewhere safe? With her Muggle sister, I believe?"

"Lily's daughter, at the moment," Albus corrected.

It took Horace only a second to make the connection. "A metamorphmagus? Yes, of course, you would have needed to remove them from a Muggle environment. Too many risks," Horace muttered, one hand reaching up to stroke his mustache. "Why have you brought them here?" His eyes studied Albus' expression, then he blanched. "No! Albus…"

"Please, Horace," Albus implored. "You're the only one I can trust with this. You know how to raise a metamorphmagus, and if anyone can keep little Harry safe it's you. What else would you do in your retirement?"

"Albus…" Horace whispered, voice shaking. "You know what happened to my daughter. I can't…"

"What happened to Elizabeth wasn't your fault," Albus insisted, leaning forward. "If anyone in this room deserves the blame, it's me — if I had confronted Gellert sooner…"

"You would have died because you couldn't bring yourself to hurt him," Horace declared bluntly. "Albus, you were still too in love with the man, and hadn't managed to convince yourself to stand against him yet. You're only human — I don't blame you, and you know it."

Albus let out a shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes shut. Horace's heart went out to his friend, and his eyes slid to the child in Albus' lap. Little Harry was silent, but their eyes were open — green eyes. Lily's eyes. Horace swallowed, unable to look away.

"I'll do it," Horace found himself saying.

"Truly?" Albus asked, opening his now-shining eyes.

"Yes, truly," Horace grumbled. "But it means I'll need to leave sooner than we planned — this dungeon is no place for a baby. Have you lined up a replacement yet?"

"I have," Albus replied. "Someone you know quite well, I believe — Severus Snape."

"Absolutely not!" Horace declared, eyes wide. "Albus, have you taken leave of your senses? Even if he really has turned his back on Tom, Severus lacks the temperament to teach anyone anything. I'll grant you that he's brilliant and might do well as a tutor for students who show exceptional promise, but putting him in a classroom setting is a disaster waiting to happen."

"Is that so?" Albus asked, eyes troubled. "Is there anybody that you would recommend?"

"…Lily would have been my first choice," Horace managed, voice choked with tears. "She was more skilled than Severus, and far more personable. But…" He resisted the urge to summon another bottle of firewhiskey.

Albus bowed his head, tears slipping down his own cheeks. He removed his glasses and laid his hand over his eyes.

"…of those still… living," Horace continued, rubbing at his eyes. "Narcissa Black… Malfoy, rather, has the skill, but while she could teach pure-bloods and half-bloods, I don't think she could put aside her prejudice against Muggle-born. But speaking of the Black sisters…" he trailed off. "Ted Tonks, husband of Andromeda Black. Not as skilled as Severus, mind, but he'd be a much better teacher. He's working at an apothecary right now — bloody waste of his talents," Horace scoffed. "If it weren't so hard for Muggle-born to get work at St. Mungo's, he'd be one of their best potioneers, and the bloody man is too proud to let me get him in the door."

"An intriguing suggestion," Albus mused, stroking his beard. "If I were to acquire Ted as a professor, do you think it would be wise of me to hire Severus on as an advanced tutor, as you suggested? I seem to recall your belief that the structure of potions classes makes it difficult for the truly gifted to experiment in the way that you believe is vital to their development."

"On a trial basis, certainly," Horace replied, frowning. "But keep an eye on him, Albus. Make sure that the students are really learning under him and not just suffering his foul tongue."

"Of course, of course," Albus murmured, eyes distant. "If you will excuse me, I believe I must pay Ted a most pressing visit. Which apothecary does he work at?"

"Slug and Jiggers," Horace replied, standing up to accept little Harry from Albus. "Tell him I have every confidence in his ability to succeed me. If he's reluctant, tell him that the alternative was Severus." If that wouldn't motivate the man to step up to the job, nothing would.

"I will," Albus promised, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he beamed. "I'll see you at dinner, Horace."

Albus disappeared out the door in a hurry, leaving Horace alone with a baby. Horace sighed and gazed down at his new charge.

"What am I to do with you, child?" Horace murmured. "Tom's old followers will be after you, I have no doubt. This will put quite the burden on my social life." He shook his head. "But I owe it to Lily, don't I? I owe it to Lily…"

* * *

Albus Dumbledore appeared in front of Slug and Jiggers, a popular apothecary in Diagon Alley. He had changed back into the colorful robes he was known for, and a tall pointed hat adorned the top of his head. It brushed against the doorframe as he entered the building, a wide smile on his face.

"Good afternoon, Richard," Albus greeted the man behind the counter. "Might I speak to Ted Tonks?"

"Of course, Headmaster," Richard Jiggers replied, smiling back. "He's in the back. I think I can trust you not to make off with any of the merchandise from the storehouse, can't I?"

"I don't know," Albus answered cheerfully. "What if I see some particularly fetching armadillo bile?"

Richard laughed and waved the old man through. A quick charm gave Albus a fix on the direction of Ted Tonks, and it wasn't long before he had the man in his sights.

"Good afternoon, Ted!" Albus called.

"H-Headmaster Dumbledore?" Ted Tonks spluttered, spinning around in shock. "What are you doing here, sir?"

"Looking for you," Albus chuckled. "You see, I have a bit of a problem on my hands — Horace has had a family situation crop up that will require him to retire from his position with some haste."

"And you thought that I might know of someone who could fill the position, since I work at an apothecary?" Ted asked, looking overwhelmed. "The fact that you even remembered me is extremely flattering, sir, but I'm afraid…"

"No, no," Albus interjected, waving his hand dismissively. "I wanted to ask you to _be_ the new potions professor. Horace recommended you himself, and told me he has full confidence in your abilities."

"Professor Slughorn did?" Ted managed, looking and sounding even more overwhelmed. "It's… it's an incredibly generous offer, sir. Could I tell you my decision tomorrow? I really should talk to Andromeda about it before I make any decisions. She would kill me if I rushed into something."

"Of course, dear boy," Albus assured him. "But the sooner you can get an answer to me, the better." He paused for a moment, then continued. "The only other candidate that I have at the moment is Severus Snape."

"Of course, sir," Ted said, nodding rapidly, a baffled look on his face. "I'll let you know first thing tomorrow."

"Wonderful!" Albus clapped Ted on the shoulder, certain that he had just recruited his new professor. "I'll be looking forward to your response."

The old man vanished in a swirl of robes, leaving a wide-eyed Ted behind. Ted Tonks wasn't entirely sure what had just happened, but it certainly seemed like opportunity had come knocking in aggressively pink robes.

* * *

"Good afternoon, Albus," the young girl greeted the moment that Albus Dumbledore appeared in her kitchen. "Please, do have a seat." She gestured at the chair across from her own, a freshly-brewed cup of tea already in place.

"Thank you, Pythia," Albus said, smiling softly as he sat down and took a sip. The tea had been prepared at precisely the correct time to be at Albus' preferred temperature when he picked it up. "Perfect as always."

"You're too kind," Pythia replied, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. Behind her, the hard-eyed girl in the armor of a warrior from years long past gave Albus a hard look.

Pythia wasn't the girl's name, not exactly. It was a title, inherited from mother to daughter for thousands of years, and a shackle. A Pythia was the Oracle at Delphi, and she was born into the role with no way to refuse. She was assigned a girl of similar age from one of the Twelve Great Families as a guard, a girl who was as much a captor as a companion and who was the only lover a Pythia could ever take thanks to the Twelve Great Families' (highly outdated and entirely illogical, in Albus' view) insistence on clinging to the traditional idea that sex between women was not truly sex and would not invalidate the Oracle's coveted virgin status. When it came time for a Pythia to bear an heir — on her twentieth birthday, always her twentieth birthday — she would imbibe a potion that would impregnate her without the need to 'sacrifice' her virginity. The Pythia would inevitably die at thirty from the magical stress of her position, leaving her daughter to take up the role at only nine or ten years of age… and so the chain would continue.

Albus pitied the girl sitting across from him just as he had her mother and her grandmother, something that she knew and hated. It was a source of tension between them that had not existed with her predecessors, who had given up in a way that this Pythia, only twelve years old, had yet to do. He credited that in part to the unusual stance that her guard, a stubborn girl named Atalanta, had taken.

Traditionally, a Pythia's guard controlled the number of audiences she had per day and dictated the entirety of her personal life. In truth this was a mask for the fact that the Twelve Great Families made these decisions, but legally and magically speaking it was ultimately up to the guard… and Atalanta had decided that it was her job to truly guard her Pythia, to keep her safe from the machinations of the ones who had been using her family's powers for so long. The Pythia gazing at Albus now was the first in recorded history to have only three audiences a day, to have weekends free, and to be allowed to leave the temple whenever she wished. She even lived in a small house with Atalanta rather than the simple quarters in the temple that had housed her foremothers. Her schedule was kept so strictly free of inconveniences that Albus himself had only been able to stop in now due to Pythia's powers allowing her to judge the importance of his question and mark him down as one of her appointments in advance. If he had received a rather pointed letter this morning telling him not to drop by, as he had on several occasions in the past, he would have known that there was no slot free for business on the scale he intended and would have formally applied for a consultation rather than simply Apparating into the kitchen.

Albus had little doubt that there would come a time that the children across from him would attempt to flee from their fate, and he was certain that the Twelve Great Families were making plans for that time. He only hoped that, when the day came, he would be able to do some small thing to help them break free of the chains shackling them to what he saw as a particularly cruel tradition.

Of course, if anyone was capable of escaping the machinations of foolish old men, it would be a seer as gifted as a bearer of the title Pythia… but those men had experience dealing with her ancestors, and none of them had ever slipped the hook before. Albus took a moment to offer a prayer to Apollo, the patron of the Oracles at Delphi, to take pity on the child and let the line's enslavement end with her.

"You wish to consult me about the prophecy given by Sybill Trelawney," Pythia said. It was not a question. "She is a true seer, if unskilled at interpreting her foresight. The prophecy is both valid and active."

Albus bowed his head. "Then it applies to young Harry and Voldemort?"

"It does," Pythia replied calmly. "It is a prophecy of the classical, self-fulfilling sort. Had your Tom Riddle never heard the prophecy, it would have never come true. When he learned of it, his own perceptions at the time shaped the future. He chose and marked what he believed to be a male child of those who defied him thrice, and thus the course of time was fixed. The actual nature of his target is immaterial, and such would be true even if the child had turned out to be a turnip so long as he believed it to be Harry Potter in the moment that he cast the curse."

Albus couldn't repress a snort. "Truly?"

"Truly," Pythia agreed. There was no humor present in her expression, but behind her Atalanta was visibly struggling to restrain a laugh. "In such a case, there would be little doubt that your Tom Riddle would emerge the victor of their inevitable contest."

"I suppose we are most fortunate that the Potters didn't replace their child with a turnip decoy, then," Albus chuckled, growing serious a moment later. "Is it possible for me to tilt the scales of the situation? Is there anything that I can do to help to defeat Voldemort?"

Pythia eyed Albus, her dark eyes seeming to measure his worth. "Yes," she finally declared. "You cannot kill your Tom Riddle, but you can destroy the foul objects that anchor his spirit to this world, and the prophecy does not say that the Marked One needs to defeat him on their own."

"Horcruces," Albus breathed in horrified realization, even as his heart swelled at the knowledge that the prophecy left room for him to handle the actual task of defeating and capturing Voldemort. "Did he truly sink so far?"

Pythia simply raised an eyebrow, and Albus shook his head. The old man felt nauseated. Splitting one's soul was an absolutely horrific act, and from Pythia's words Voldemort had done it more than once. What madness had possessed Albus' former student to drive him so deep into evil magic? Learning the Dark Arts wasn't an inherently monstrous thing (Albus himself had an expansive library of Dark knowledge that he used in order to combat its practitioners) and nor was using them (Horace Slughorn had been an effective deterrent against Voldemort launching a strike on Hogwarts while Albus was away on business, as the old potions master was a respected master of the most esoteric kinds of Dark Magic), but there were certain things that simply should not be done.

Splitting the soul was one of those, for the harm it inflicted on both the user's mind and on the entire world's cycle of rebirth. Why Voldemort had chosen such an abominable method of achieving partial immortality Albus really couldn't imagine — if one wished to live forever, there were far simpler methods like becoming a vampire. Someone of Voldemort's genius would probably have even been capable of creating a philosopher's stone! And if the man absolutely had to have immortality that would protect him from disembodiment, removing his soul entirely and storing it elsewhere would achieve the same results as a Horcrux without damaging the cycle of rebirth by risking the injection of partial souls into the process.

"Thank you, my dear," Albus murmured, finishing his tea and standing up to depart. "I hope the next time we meet will be under more pleasant circumstances."

"You may hope," Pythia replied neutrally, her blank expression not giving an inch.

A moment later, Albus was gone, leaving the girl to collapse sideways and into the waiting arms of Atalanta as the shakes began.


	3. Chapter 3

Horace Slughorn, having finished packing up everything that he didn't absolutely need to have immediate access to in order to continue living in the castle for another few days, found himself facing several difficult decisions.

The old potions master stared down at the baby he had been entrusted with. They were a quiet child — he hadn't heard a peep out of them this entire time, so unlike the fussy baby that his daughter had been, and nothing like he would have expected from a child of James Potter… but very much along the lines of what he would have expected from a young Lily Evans. The more he looked at the child, the more of their mother he saw in them.

"Well, I suppose the first thing we'll need to do to hide you from Tom's followers is give you a new name," Horace finally murmured, scooping the child up into his arms. "We'll say you're my nephew's child, how about that? He and his family died a few months ago, but nobody will bat an eye at the idea that someone had been babysitting you at the time…" After all, Horace, didn't say, their daughter's body officially hadn't been found. He hadn't been about to let anyone see his precious infant grandniece's body in the state it had been, and as the first on the scene he had cremated her himself before the Aurors arrived. "Your mother told me that if she had a girl, she would call you Ivy. Do you like that name? If it doesn't suit you when you grow up, we can always change it later."

It was impossible to predict what gender an infant metamorphmagus would prefer to present as when they were older, if they even had a preference. Many didn't, and even those who had a fairly strict desire to be seen as a particular gender tended to be entirely comfortable taking on bodies classically associated with a different gender. As a result, it wasn't uncommon for a metamorphmagus to change their name in their early teens — all parents could do at their birth was guess. When he had been raising his daughter, more than one parent he'd met had told him how sorry they were that he was 'forced' to take care to give her room to explore herself and figure out who she was, but Horace hadn't seen it as any kind of a burden — in fact, his experiences with children suggested that it would probably be to their benefit if their parents would give them that kind of space even when they weren't metamorphmagi. As a Head of House, he had endeavored to ensure that Slytherin would be a safe space for young people who needed to learn who they were, somewhere that their experimentation wouldn't get back to judgmental parents. In more than one case, he'd used his connections to help students (and not just Slytherin students, either) disappear to places where they could be happy.

This time…

…the baby cooed softly and grasped one of Horace's fingers. He felt himself tearing up.

"Ivy it is," Horace managed. "Ivy Slughorn. That will explain the metamorphmagus part well enough to anyone who gets curious." It was well known in Pure-blood circles that the Slughorns had been a branch family of the Blacks a few hundred years ago, and that they had continued to produce the occasional metamorphmagus throughout the years.

Now if only the next decision weren't so much harder than giving a child a new name.

Should Horace Slughorn return to the place of his birth to raise Ivy? He couldn't think of any place in the world more capable of fending off Tom and his followers, but it had plenty of dangers of its own, and it didn't tend to produce the most well-adjusted people. Horace considered his own relative sanity something of a miracle.

But… was it better for Ivy to be odd (and probably more than a little bit Dark), or better for them to risk death when Tom and his followers inevitably came for them? What would Lily have wanted?

…a ridiculous question. Horace laughed wetly, shaking his head as the tears flowed freely down his face. Lily would have wanted her child to live, even at the cost of the entire world. That was the kind of awe-inspiring, all-consuming love that Lily Evans had been capable of. The hard part now would probably be convincing Albus that it was for the best… but that was a conversation for later in the day, once the headmaster had returned from his errands.

* * *

Horace stared down into his wineglass, not entirely sure that the decision to come to dinner in the Great Hall had been a wise one… but on the other hand, Albus was less likely to make a scene in front of the entire school.

"Albus," Horace began. "I think I'm going to move back to my birthplace."

Albus choked on his salad. "E-Excuse me?" he managed, coughing. "Back to Raven's Moor?"

"Yes," Horace replied.

"My dear friend…" Albus murmured, placing his fork down on his plate and staring at Horace with wide eyes. "Have you received a blow to the head?"

"Not at all," Horace assured him. "I simply believe it will be the safest place to raise little Ivy."

"In what way is Raven's Moor safe, Horace?" Albus asked. To the headmaster's credit, he didn't even blink at the change of name — Horace suspected that his friend had expected him to take that precaution.

"Can you imagine Tom attempting to raid it?" Horace asked pointedly.

"Yes," Albus responded flatly. "He doesn't have a quarter of the sense that Gellert did."

"True," Horace admitted. "But I meant the end result."

"Ah," Albus sighed, eyes growing distant. "I'd imagine it would end quite poorly for him, for all of the very reasons I believe it would be a poor place to raise a child. You yourself moved away for Elizabeth's sake, as I recall."

Horace lowered his voice and said, "Elizabeth wasn't being targeted by one of the most dangerous Dark Lords in recent memory, Albus."

"…I suppose you have a point," Albus muttered, rubbing his face. "Still, Horace. Raven's Moor? The madhouse that produced Rowena?"

"It's never managed someone quite so… interesting… after her," Horace protested. "I turned out all right, didn't I?"

"Horace, when we first met you tried to sacrifice me to Yog-Sothoth," Albus groaned.

"But I didn't," Horace reminded him.

"Only because I managed to talk you around," Albus pointed out. "It took me weeks, and I only had that much time because you confused the new and full moons."

"Yes, well," Horace mumbled, blushing. "I was young."

Albus sighed. "You're asking me to let you take a child into a pot of venomous insects, Horace."

"If Ivy is anything like Lily, they'll eat the insects alive," Horace declared.

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm afraid of!" Albus exclaimed softly. "Horace, we don't need that _gu_ settlement turning Ivy into a second Rowena."

"Albus… please," Horace whispered, locking eyes with his old friend. "Trust me."

"…very well, Horace," Albus finally whispered back. "But I will be visiting regularly, and I expect you to update me if anything happens."

"Of course," Horace promised. "You have my word."

Albus nodded somberly. "After dinner, I will be visiting your quarters. I have something of great importance to discuss with you."

Horace felt a shiver run down his spine. "As you wish."

* * *

Horace and Albus sat in silence in Horace's room, little Ivy perched quietly on Horace's lap.

"Horcruces," Albus finally said. "Tom made Horcruces. Plural."

Horace's eyes slipped shut. "That fool," he whispered. "That absolute fool. I told him what those would do to him."

"I suspected that he had learned of them from you," Albus said, tone neutral.

"Learned of them from me? Perish the thought!" Horace exclaimed. "No, he came to me one night and began asking questions about them. I told the damned boy that the act of making a single Horcrux would irreparably damage his mind, let alone the seven he thought would make for a stable number."

"Seven?" Albus hissed. "So many? It's a wonder he could function rationally at all."

Horace gave Albus a sad look. "Oh, Albus. That's not the kind of damage that Horcruces do."

"My research suggested that the act of making a Horcrux impairs one's higher thought processes," Albus said slowly. "Is that incorrect?"

"It depends on how you define the term," Horace answered, leaning back in his chair. "Making a Horcrux strips you of your ability to feel any kind of positive emotion. It leaves you empty, always hungry for something, but unable to remember what it is. It also strips you of the ability to feel fear, which leads to more reckless decision-making." He swallowed. "Tell me, Albus. Do you know what Dementors are?"

"…no," Albus said, voice cracking as he understood the implications of the question. "Surely not."

Horace nodded slowly. "It's true, Albus. Dementors are what remains of ancient magicians who made Horcruces. They grant you a form of immortality, certainly… but after you experience the hunger for long enough, it utterly consumes your sense of self, leaving you little more than a particularly resilient Inferius. At some point the flesh inevitably fails… and all that's left behind is a ravenous spirit made up of half a soul. The reason Dementors cannot be killed is that their Horcruces have been lost to time."

Albus brought a shaking hand up to cover his eyes. "I had no idea," he whispered. "Where did you learn such a thing?"

"The Great Library at Raven's Moor," Horace replied grimly. "You see why I need to return, Albus. Ivy will need to know everything that they can to survive when Tom returns — and he will, no matter what you or I do to try to stop him. Every Black Art recorded in that library is another chance for Ivy to live the life Lily sacrificed everything for."

Tears were running silently down Albus' cheeks. "Promise me you'll do everything you can to ensure that Ivy can love," Albus begged. "Don't repeat my mistakes. Don't let them fall down the path that Tom did."

"I swear it, Albus," Horace replied somberly.

Albus let himself go, allowing his sobbing to become audible. Horace stood up and moved across the room to sit next to his old friend and enfolded him in a hug, little Ivy cradled gently between them.

Horace's own tears made no noise at all.


	4. Chapter 4

The new day passed in a blur. Ted Tonks accepted the job, as Horace had hoped he would, which meant that Horace would be able to depart the next morning. But before that…

Horace Slughorn was not known as a particularly brave man. For all of his skill at Dark Magic, he preferred soft power, the exercise of the influence he cultivated so carefully, to matching wands in open battle. Something that often went unrecognized was that the exercise of soft power often required bravery, too — it could create powerful enemies.

Tonight was not a night to hide away. Tom Riddle would be back someday, and he would be able to recruit fanatics to his cause — there was no doubt of either of those things. But Horace Slughorn could preempt Tom's recruitment of the next generation, sow enough doubt that the next war might not be so bloody. It would paint a target on his back, but he was already going to be raising a child that had been personally targeted for death by his former student.

With determination in his heart, Horace Slughorn attended his final dinner as a professor at Hogwarts.

"If I may have your attention," Dumbledore said, his soft voice filling the room in some way entirely unconnected to its volume. Every head in the Great Hall looked up at their headmaster, though some of the hungrier students hoped he would get on with it so that they could eat their dinners. "It is with great sorrow that I must announce the retirement of Professor Horace Slughorn, who has been a fixture of this school for nearly fifty years now. Horace, would you like to say a few words?"

Horace rose slowly to his feet.

"Some of you I've taught for nearly seven years," he said, his many years of public speaking experience the only thing preventing his voice from breaking, "and some of you had only just started with me this year, but every one of you in this hall is my student. You have my most sincere apologies for this abrupt departure, but…" Horace took a shuddering breath. "These last few years have been hard, for all of us. The war, the madness forced on our world by the reckless ambition of a former student of this very school, stole the lives of many, many people who I came to care for over their time in my classroom. And then, a few short months ago, it stole the lives of my only living family… save for one."

Horace paused to wipe his eyes with his handkerchief. "I'm the only one left to care for my nephew's child, and I can't do that here. I need to be there for them." His gaze turned steely. "You all know that the self-proclaimed 'Lord Voldemort' was a student here at Hogwarts… he was even Head Boy. You all know that he claims descent from Salazar Slytherin himself. But how many of you know who he was while he was here? Before he was a Dark Lord feared across Europe? Go on, raise your hands."

Not a single hand rose. Even the hungriest students, who had just wanted him to get this over with, were focused now.

"I spoke with his earliest followers, probed their minds. He had Obliviated them of their knowledge of his schooling. He has erased his history," Horace declared softly, "from all of those who did not teach him. Of his teachers, only two remain, and both of them are in this room." Even Binns hadn't been teaching at that point.

Albus rose to his feet in the silence that followed that declaration. He and Horace were side-by-side, the only two people standing up in the vast hall.

"I taught him," Horace said. "Albus taught him. All of the others fell at his hands, to preserve his secret." He raised his hand into the air, index finger outstretched and trailing purple fire. He traced the letters of a phrase, leaving it floating in the air.

'I am Lord Voldemort'

Horace's hand slashed down, and the letters rearranged themselves.

'Tom Marvolo Riddle'

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," Slughorn half-whispered. "The name feared across the land was a schoolboy's anagram, a poor attempt at French made out of a desire to gain an air of mystery. Tom Marvolo Riddle, a Half-blood sorted into Slytherin. A Half-blood who was believed, at the time, to be Muggle-born — and who, despite his claims to the contrary, may in fact be a Muggle-born in truth."

For the first time since Horace had begun speaking, muttering broke out in the hall. A handful of students, scattered across the four houses, made to stand up and shout protests, but Albus Dumbledore stretched out his hand and they found that the power to move had fled from their bodies.

"It didn't take Tom long to realize that he could parlay his ability to speak Parseltongue into a claim to descent from Salazar," Horace continued. "He was a brilliant child. I cannot say whether or not he was truly descended from the line of Slytherin, but I will say that Parseltongues are far from uncommon in other countries… and the language can be learned. Albus?"

Albus gestured and the table in front of the staff became an enormous serpent. It reared up in fury, but paused and calmed itself when the old headmaster spoke to it in hisses. It lay back down and became a table once more.

"As you can see," Horace said, allowing a hard smile to light upon his lips, "being a Parselmouth does not provide sufficient evidence for descent from Salazar Slytherin, which leaves us with a Half-blood or Muggle-born of uncertain parentage leading a swarm of Pure-blood fanatics in a campaign of slaughter. A campaign that, I will note, has driven several Pure-blood lines to extinction, and others close to it." He paused long enough for his audience to make the connection to his earlier mention of his own family. "Tom Marvolo Riddle is no visionary, no hero of the Pure-bloods who have been 'forgotten' by those who seek to grant Muggle-borns equal rights and status. He is a madman who seeks power for himself and only for himself, and he will tell any lie, sacrifice any follower to achieve it." Horace's voice rose. "Tom Marvolo Riddle is no lord! Tom Marvolo Riddle is no invincible leader! When he returns — and he will — Tom Marvolo Riddle will not seek to save the Pure-bloods, only to enrich himself. Remember that!"

Horace let out a long sigh. "Do not let this war repeat itself," he entreated. "When Tom Marvolo Riddle returns, acting the part of the mighty Pure-blood champion, cast him out from your thresholds. If we stand united, his lies have no power over us. If we stand united, the few who answer his call will be unable to destroy the futures of our families. We are, every one of us, human! We are, every one of us, magical! I have taught at Hogwarts for fifty long years as a professor of potions and, at times, alchemy, and do you know what I saw?" Horace spread his hands wide. "In the first year, Pure-bloods and Half-bloods raised in magical homes outperform Muggle-borns on average, though there are always outliers. But after that? There are no blood status trends at all! There is no Pure-blood advantage or Muggle-born disadvantage after the initial adjustment to magic. If I were to show you all the grades of the second through seventh years here at Hogwarts with the names removed, you would be unable to find any correlation between blood status and ability! You are all equal in the eyes of magic, whether your magical lineage stretches back six hundred years as mine does or you are the first of your line. Do not allow fear of change or resentment of the past to allow you to be driven to hate one another, for it is that very hate that those Tom Marvolo Riddle exploit to cause us to destroy ourselves.

"But now, I think, is the time for me to fall silent and allow you to think, to speak to each other and discover the truth of my words… and for you to fill your stomachs," Horace added with a chuckle that was echoed by a few of the students in the hall. "From this moment on, I am no longer a professor of Hogwarts… but you are all still my students. I will always welcome mail from every one of you."

There was a deluge of applause. Students at every table jumped to their feet — Horace had been a much-loved professor for his easygoing nature and willingness to work with students who were struggling. He had, most students acknowledged, a tendency to be somewhat patronizing if he thought you were a poor student or unlikely to make much of yourself… but he never let that stop him from helping you if you took the time to go to him and ask. Nobody doubted that he cared about them, even if they did think he cared more about others. Horace Slughorn was the one professor that you could be sure was only going to be judging you based on the ability you displayed and what he thought you planned to do with yourself, which made him a favorite confidant of students from all houses. He would be sorely missed.

They hoped their next potions professor would be half as good. As Albus hadn't chosen Severus Snape, these hopes would be met and exceeded.

* * *

 **I had actually meant to have us out of Hogwarts at this point, but Horace's speech got away from me a little and this felt like a good place to stop. We'll be getting our first glimpse of Raven's Moor in the next chapter, though!**


	5. Chapter 5

Horace Slughorn shivered as he got out of the carriage that had brought him to the village, casting another warming charm on little Ivy to be safe. Raven's Moor was perpetually freezing… with the exception, of course, of the areas dedicated to worship of eldritch _things_ associated with heat. Horace's ancestors had dealt mostly with entities of the deep earth, so the forbidding manor he was now slowly climbing the steps to was surrounded by a treacherous swamp. It was cold and wet.

Horace looked down at the child in his arms and sighed, then raised his hand and knocked on the large doors. They creaked open after a moment, having recognized him by his blood and magic. For the first time in seventy-three years, Horace Slughorn was home.

"Who's there?" a cranky voice demanded, an odd clattering sound beginning to move towards the door.

"It's Horace, Grandfather," Horace replied calmly.

"Is it, now? After all these years?" Horace's grandfather growled as he appeared at the top of the long staircase that dominated the entrance hall. He was a skeleton — literally. No flesh or muscle wrapped his bones, and his eye sockets were empty. There was no hair on top of his head, and he didn't bother with any kind of clothing. What would be the point? There was nothing to hide.

"I have come to seek sanctuary," Horace said, bowing his head.

"That school not safe enough for you anymore, boy?" his grandfather demanded, stomping down the stairs.

"No, Hogwarts is safe," Horace said, shaking his head. "But it's no place to raise a child." He held Ivy up.

"That one isn't of our blood," Horace's grandfather said suspiciously, the odd noises coming from his empty nostrils suggesting he was sniffing the air.

"From their father's side, they're descended of the Blacks," Horace said. "They've inherited an acute manifestation of the Curse of Age, and their parents are dead. I'm claiming that they're Laertes' child in order to establish the reason for my adoption of them."

"Really now? The Curse of Age?" Horace's grandfather asked, perking up. "I will grant your request for sanctuary, but you really must allow me to study them."

Horace ground his teeth. This was the primary reason that he had left when Elizabeth was born… but in this case, he had actually been counting on it, damn him. "On the condition that your studies are not harmful to them, I accept," Horace said. Mad though his many-greats grandfather was, the old revenant had a rare gift for delving into Wild Magic. If anybody could prepare Ivy to face Tom, it was Altair Slughorn, who had broken the bonds tying the Slughorns to the Blacks and established them as a family in their own right.

"Harmful?" Altair scoffed. "What do you take me for? A subject like this isn't so common that I can simply go out and fetch a replacement if I break it."

"As you say, grandfather," Horace agreed.

"You may get settled in," Altair ordered, "and then you will reestablish yourself in the community. I won't have you freeloading."

"As you command," Horace agreed again. This, too, had been expected. Raven's Moor (and quite possibly the entire world) survived only because every family in the village sabotaged every other family's efforts at every turn. It was a dangerous dance of politics and Dark Magic with consequences on a global scale. The never-ending competition had caused Raven's Moor to produce many of the most brilliant magical minds in Europe… but also many of the most dangerously unhinged. It had been nearly a century, but they were still dealing with the fallout of Alexandra Lovegood's successful opening of a portal straight to the elemental essence of Fire — it had been closed a mere minute after she had been utterly consumed by the ensuing blaze, but rogue 'heliopaths' still cropped up from time to time, sometimes as far away as South America.

The less said about the continuing fallout of Rowena Ravenclaw's experiments, the better. There were nearly sixty square miles of the Moor that were considered not only uninhabitable but fatal to so much as enter, all centered around a single small laboratory that had been the site of experiments on… something, some sort of creature. Nobody was sure what, but the area was full of a thick mist and anybody who ventured inside went mad and refused to leave, all the while suffering phantom wounds that didn't bleed and couldn't be healed. Forcibly removing them only made their madness worse, and allowing them to stay resulting in them vanishing forever.

And this was the little slice of Hell to which Horace had brought Lily's child. Lily, he had always thought, would have flourished if she had been raised in Raven's Moor — she had always teetered on the edge between brilliance and madness, but had a fundamental kindness to her that kept her from becoming the monster her instincts seemed to demand she be. He was counting on her child being the same way.

It didn't take long for Horace to have his bags unpacked and a spacious room on the second floor of the manor set up for his habitation. A decisive jab of his wand transfigured a chair into a suitable crib for little Ivy, and he nodded in satisfaction.

"Time to meet the neighbors, I suppose," Horace murmured. The question was whether or not he should take Ivy with him on the rounds. If he didn't, he wouldn't be able to control the circumstances under which the other families of the Moor learned of their presence… and it would involve leaving Ivy unattended near Altair Slughorn. While Horace was reasonably certain that his many-greats grandfather would hold to his word and do no lasting damage, it was the 'lasting' part that worried him. No, he wouldn't be leaving Ivy here… which meant that he needed to be ready to protect Ivy in the event that any of the families were as… quirky… as he remembered.

The first one would no doubt be at least as bad as it had been in the past. Horace shuddered, then sighed and cast a a series of defensive spells on Ivy, who watched his wand movements with wide eyes.

"Up you get," Horace said, scooping Ivy into his arms. "Let's go see the other inmates of this madhouse, shall we?"

* * *

The nearest property to the Slughorn ancestral home belonged to the Lovegood family, unfortunately. The Lovegoods were notorious even for denizens of Raven's Moor, and not just because they were better-known due to a few members of recent generations settling down in more populated areas. They were descended from the same line that had produced Rowena Ravenclaw, though they thankfully weren't direct descendants of the mad genius herself… but they were avid demonologists and necromancers who frequently interbred with demons of all kinds, causing their bloodline to be a minefield. You never knew what traits a Lovegood might develop as they aged and came into the fullness of their magical inheritance, as Horace's older sister had learned when her girlfriend abruptly developed a lust demon's life-draining powers mid-coitus… and that was where the other half of the major problem with Lovegoods began.

Horace knocked on the door to the Lovegood castle, giving the lava in the moat a nervous glance. He half-expected a heliopath to launch itself out and attack him as he waited for someone to answer the door, and wasn't sure if it might be preferable to…

The door creaked open.

"Horace?" a delighted voice gasped, and he was pulled into a hug by unnaturally-strong arms.

"Helen," Horace greeted, voice strained. "Your nose appears to have fallen off."

"Has it? Bother," Helen remarked, sounding unperturbed as she released her hold on Horace and brought a hand up to prod at the spot where her nose should be. "I'm sure it will turn up. It always does."

"Quite," Horace replied, the corners of his smile twitching as he struggled to continue looking cheerful.

Helen Lovegood _née_ Slughorn had died when her girlfriend manifested her demonic heritage, but Lovegoods were necromancers. Her death had lasted all of the seven minutes it had taken Persephone Lovegood to set up the ritual necessary to revive her as a corpse-puppet, soul tightly bound to a decomposing body. Corpse-puppets were not, unfortunately, the most durable of undead, and required quite a lot of maintenance — the fact that Helen was still in such good condition nearly a century after her death was nothing short of a miracle, and a sign that maintenance was likely performed on a near-daily basis. In his youth, Horace had heard quite enough about how much Persephone and Helen enjoyed said maintenance to deeply scar his mind — he still had to fight the urge to flee whenever he heard the name 'Lovegood.' The first time he'd had one in his class and reached the name on his attendance list, he had shrieked and dived underneath his desk. It had taken Albus an hour to get him back out, and Horace still refused to be ashamed of his actions. It had been an entirely reasonable course of action when confronted with a surprise Lovegood.

"It's so good to see you, though!" Helen continued, oblivious to Horace's ongoing trauma. "What brings you back to the Moor?" Her eyes… no, eye, Horace noted with sick fascination — the left was intact, but the right appeared to have rotted almost entirely out of its socket… fixed on Ivy. "Oh! Is she yours?"

"They are now," Horace said. "This is Ivy. They were Laertes', but…" He swallowed. "The last Dark Lord's men killed him and Annette. I've moved back here to raise them — I'm living with grandfather now."

"Oh, I heard they had a baby!" Helen exclaimed, clasping her hands together and beaming. "And they've got an acute Curse of Age? How old are they now…? Let's see, the card I got was back in May, so…" She counted on her fingers, needing to use the middle finger of her right hand twice in order to account for her missing ring finger. "About six months?"

Horace cursed internally — he had been counting on nobody remembering that Laertes' daughter had been quite a bit younger than Harry Potter. He would just have to run with it — metamorphmagi didn't age in the same way that ordinary children did, so it would all work out in the end if he was careful. If anything, being forced to hide Ivy's true age might prove a blessing — while it wouldn't be inconceivable to Tom or his more intelligent followers that Albus had entrusted 'Harry Potter' to Horace, even Tom's suspicious mind would discount a metamorphmagus child who was supposed to be nearly an entire year younger than Harry Potter.

"Yes, that's right. May 25th," Horace agreed.

"I thought so. What a little cutie," Helen cooed, tickling Ivy's chin with one rotting finger. Ivy cooed back and grabbed at the finger, which detached. Ivy stared at it for a moment before sticking it in their mouth, Horace's attempt to grab it a fraction of a second too slow.

"Ivy, no!" Horace gasped. "Spit that out right now!"

"It's fine, Horace," Helen laughed. "Persephone can grow me a new one. Cats and birds eat bits of me all the time."

"That's not the problem!" Horace exclaimed, studiously ignoring the unwanted information. "What if it makes them sick?"

"I'll have you know I'm very clean," Helen sniffed. "I wash almost every week, if I remember."

Horace gagged and redoubled his efforts to convince Ivy to spit out the finger that they were sucking on. "Please, Ivy? I'll give you candy when we get back home. You like candy, right?"

Ivy stared into Horace's eyes, then spat the finger into his face. "'kay," they mumbled.

Horace sighed and wiped the drool off of his face with his handkerchief, then handed the slightly slimy finger to his undead sister. "Please keep all of your digits to yourself," he half-begged.

"I'll try," Helen said, but she didn't seem particularly concerned. "You should come inside! I know Persephone would love to catch up with you and see little Ivy, and the rest of the family will be thrilled to have you back."

Every fiber of Horace's being screamed for him to flee, but Altair would be furious if he did. He took a deep breath and put his foot over the threshold, reluctantly entering a place he had sworn he would never visit again.

* * *

If Raven's Moor was Hell, then the Lovegood castle was the ninth circle, Horace concluded. The room dedicated to entertaining guests was circular, with multiple levels of rounded benches surrounding a couple of chairs in the middle. The chairs in the middle were, of course, for guests — and the Lovegoods all sat on the benches, completely surrounding their poor victims. The worst part was that the setup meant that Horace currently had Lovegoods behind him, which was the last place you wanted to have them… with the possible exception of right in front of you, of course.

"It's lovely to see you again, Horace," Persephone Lovegood said, giving him a gentle smile. She was perched daintily on a bench, Helen cuddled up to her side. "I hope you've been well." She didn't look like she had aged a day since Horace had last seen her, and he didn't want to know how that had been achieved. For all he knew it was just an illusion, but Lovegoods tended to look down on those — their feud with the Greywoods was legendary.

"I have," Horace replied, smile fixed. "Teaching at Hogwarts was quite rewarding."

"I'm glad to hear it," Persephone said, inclining her head. "I do hope that retiring to take care of Ivy didn't cause you much distress."

"No, not at all," Horace answered, shaking his head. "I'd been planning to retire soon anyway. This just pushed up the schedule a little."

"Marvelous," a balding male Lovegood that Horace didn't recognize said, leaning forward in his seat. "You know, my great-granddaughter is only a little older than your Ivy. Her father is Abroad, but I'm sure he would be happy to return to give his daughter a playmate."

'Abroad.' That was how the Lovegoods referred to Lovegoods who had done the unthinkable and left the Moor — they treated them as if they were simply traveling and that it was a given that they would one day return to stay, no matter how many years went by since their departure. Horace was no fool, though — a Lovegood Abroad was still a Lovegood, and if they were less dangerous than those living in the Moor it was only because there were fewer of them in one place.

"I'll keep that in mind," Horace replied, mentally marking that Lovegood as a man to avoid at all costs lest he find himself pressed into arranging a playdate. The less contact Ivy had with Lovegoods, the better — he certainly didn't need them befriending one. Helen's childhood friendship with, eventual courtship of, and death and 'revival' at the hand of Persephone had taught him everything he needed to know about how that kind of thing ended.

"Do you intend to stay once Ivy has grown up?" an elderly woman asked, her sharp eyes emphasized by the odd stitches in the discolored flesh that surrounded them.

"I'm not sure yet," Horace 'admitted,' even as he mentally rebelled against the idea. Better not to give the Lovegoods the idea that he might leave the land they regarded as so important. "I might."

"Hmm," the old lady mused, eyes narrowing. "Well, I hope you see sense and fulfill your duties, young man. It would be good to have a Slughorn with sense around the Moor again. That geezer Altair…" She scoffed.

"…has my honored grandfather done something to upset you?" Horace asked carefully, dreading the answer.

"Altair," another elderly Lovegood, this one a man, began. The name sounded like a curse on his tongue. "Has been Meddling With Things That Man Ought Not To Be Meddling With."

Horace had never heard more terrifying words from a Lovegood in his life, and he had once been forced to sit still and listen to Persephone Lovegood recount how much she enjoyed the feeling of his sister's brain squishing between her fingers during maintenance. What could possibly be so bad that a Lovegood believed it should be left alone? It was documented fact that they had the blood of demon lords running through their line! Anything so bad that people crazy enough to breed with demon lords wanted no part of it had to be apocalyptic.

"And… what might those be?" Horace croaked, a cold sweat breaking across his forehead.

"Moving pictures," hissed another Lovegood.

And with that, all of the tension that had built up in his body vanished. Horace had been away so long that he had forgotten about the Lovegood stance on photographs.

"I'll talk to him about it," Horace said diplomatically, wondering why his grandfather had taken up an interest in photography.

"See that you do," yet another Lovegood snapped. "Bad enough that the Muggles are doing it. We don't need that old skeleton mucking around with that kind of nonsense, too."

That brought Horace up short. Had Muggles developed the ability to take moving photographs? He felt like he would have heard something about that. Did 'moving pictures' mean something different in this context? He had forfeited his best opportunity to ask the Lovegoods for details by acting as if he understood what they meant, so he would have to hope that his grandfather was willing to explain.

Horace made a show of checking his pocket watch, thankful that Ivy had continued to be a quiet baby throughout this torturous meeting. "I hate to run," he said, "but I've got a number of other stops that I need to make today, and it's already a quarter past one."

"You have to go already?" Helen pouted. Persephone patted her arm and gave Horace a knowing look.

"Feel free to visit again at any time," Persephone said. "Helen and I would be delighted to entertain you and Ivy."

"Thank you," Horace said stiffly, rising and giving the room of Lovegoods a bow. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you around."

"Count on it, boy," the old lady who had first raised the subject of his grandfather cackled.

Horace shuddered as he made his way out of the castle. He would never get used to Lovegoods.


End file.
